Ghosts of the Past

Before I met him, I was promiscuous. I didn’t think that sex was a big deal. I thought it was exciting. So I slept around—with all kinds of guys. But I really regret it now because when we go downtown and a boy says hi to me and then walks out of earshot, he snaps, “Did you sleep with that one, too?” I usually answer yes.

When I was eighteen, I got my first and only boyfriend. He seemed wonderful up until my birthday, when he fucked another girl. That marked the beginning of a long period when we couldn’t bring ourselves to break up, and we flushed whatever good there was left right down the toilet. After that, I started sleeping around, and I acted like a complete jerk more often than not—like the time I had sex with a lanky artsy guy at the party of another friend who had a huge crush on me. Or when I crashed in my friend’s tiny apartment on her cramped couch and brought home some guy I’d known in high school. But I didn’t think any of it was really important. Just two pieces of meat kneading each other, trying to find an orgasm that would make them forget, if only for a fleeting second, how empty their lives are.

He takes it personally. “What does that say about me?” he asks. “All these guys are so fucking ugly, and you keep adding more and more to the list.” Sometimes he gets so worked up he says, “An attractive man like me can’t be with a girl who’s slept with so many creeps.”